


New Vegas by Night

by GhanimaAtreides



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas, Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brujah (Vampire: The Masquerade), Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fallout Video Game References, Fallout:New Vegas References, Gen, Mutant Powers, Mutants, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nuclear War, Toreador (Vampire: The Masquerade), Vampire Bites, Vampires, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23717149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhanimaAtreides/pseuds/GhanimaAtreides
Summary: The Fallout series is set in a retro-futuristic, post-apocalyptic America, 200 years following a nuclear war that has devastated most of the planet and transformed it into an inhospitable wasteland where life is brutal and only the fittest survive.Vampire the Masquerade is a game of personal horror that focuses on the machinations of modern-day vampires and explores questions of morality, depravity and the human nature (in its absence).The premise behind these two short stories is this: how would a nuclear apocalypse affect Kindred society? How would they survive in its aftermath, the ensuing chaos shattering centuries-old power structures and rendering petty political scheming meaningless? Would they try to ride the wave, hide, or on the contrary, give in to their bestial natures?Then, two hundred years after the fact, what place would they have in the Wasteland, among dangerous mutants and warring humans, where untainted blood was at a premium and their comfortable havens but a distant memory?Moira Sushill, a former Toreador Primogen and Dawn Tyler, an ex-Anarch Brujah recount two very different experiences...
Kudos: 8





	New Vegas by Night

**Author's Note:**

> This fic assumes the reader is familiar with both the Fallout series (Fallout New Vegas in particular) and Vampire the Masquerade.

War. War never changes.

I was there when battles were still fought with sword and spear, and I was there when the first tanks rolled across the steppes. I was there when the first atom bomb was dropped, and the last. The last, Great War.

I was there when the world ended.

Overnight, society collapsed. Those who survived the explosions which shook the Earth, reducing cities to radioactive rubble, hid. I hid too, as did what remained of my kind, watching as the mortals around us succumbed to sickness and radiation, or the desperation of their fellows. There was panic and chaos, people reverting to their primitive instincts in order to survive; by the end of the first month, those who had been doctors and lawyers killed and looted side by side with common thugs. What was once the mighty Camarilla scattered, our havens destroyed, traditions and allegiances thrown to the wind as we became trapped in the ruins of our own, shattered society.

Some of us, more than I care to think about, turned their backs on our Camarilla. Giving in to their predatory instincts and renouncing the Masquerade, they banded together under the banner of vampiric supremacy. It was a bloody upheaval in which many were killed, either caught in the crossfire or ambushed by frightened mortals newly-awakened to the harsh necessities of their own survival. It surprises me still that we avoided global exposure then, but the ferocity of the uprising proved its own downfall, rogue Kindred butchered quickly and before mortals had the chance to comprehend the truth. In time, it passed into legend and we along with it, one of the many bizarre stories from those days. Of course, all the mutated horrors spawned across the globe since then make us seem almost pleasant by comparison, do they not?

More than two centuries have passed, and in that time I have learned that we can never go back to what once was; our only choice is to move forward, toward an uncertain future. A new world has emerged from the holocaust, a barren wasteland where life struggles to endure, populated by a different breed of humans. Stronger and more self-sufficient, or sporting outlandish mutations which render their blood almost undrinkable. Because, yes, blood remains the crux of our existence, and getting it has never been a greater challenge. Prey is scarce, and pure, untainted stock even more so. The most sought-after is the blood of those born and raised within great subterranean installations called Vaults, where a fraction of the population was able to flee during the attack; two centuries later, their descendants have emerged, but they are few and far in between, and they tend to be reclusive.

Ah, there comes Michael Angelo – yes, like the famous Old World artist, whose works survive only in the pages of crumbling history books and a few scattered holotapes. He calls me his Muse; I look flattered and grant him that which he craves: a sip of my blood, more potent than any chem. In turn, he shares his and afterwards lays his head in my lap. I twirl my fingers through his hair; he likes that, and I indulge him. Michael Angelo is one of the Vault-dwellers; there are whispers of Kindred said to have survived the War inside Vaults, living in complete isolation from the rest of the inhabitants and feeding in secret on sleeping victims, though personally I call it wishful thinking. Of course, and few know this, the Vaults were never _really_ meant to save anyone; their true purpose was government-endorsed experimentation – and they call _us_ monsters? Then again, knowing what I know about the nature of those...experiments, I would not be surprised if our kind _were_ involved somehow. Hm, perhaps there is some merit to the rumours after all.

Needless to say, there are considerably fewer of us left in the world, particularly ancient ones such as myself. Those who are not in Torpor under some long-forgotten ruin have joined the struggle to rebuild our society, seeking out populated areas and reinforcing the laws of the Masquerade, now more strictly than ever. These new oases of civilization are excellent hunting grounds and ideal for establishing havens, though there are many inherent risks in holding such a territory. While the majority of the population is a mongrel mix of wastelanders, there are others: soldiers of the bitter rivals New California Republic and Caesar’s Legion, raiders, mercenaries and most dangerous of all, those in possession of dreaded Energy Weapons, capable of reducing Kindred to ash with a single burst.

Not all who went rogue after the War perished; some survived and over time were joined by others, most notably remnants of the Sabbat and those of Nosferatu and Gangrel lineage, colonizing the wastes and establishing their rule among hordes of mutant wildlife and remote communities where life has slowly regressed to an almost tribal-like primitiveness. Their harsh existence has shaped them into exceptionally feral beings closer to the Beast than any of us, and to underestimate them would be foolish, for they hold the ability to control many of the fearsome beasts which roam the wastes, deploying them against intruders with devastating ferocity. None but the most brazen Kindred dare cross territory lines without permission, lest they wish to find themselves face to face with a pack of rampaging Deathclaws.

Most of us are drifters, existing on the very fringes of society and like many others simply fighting to survive. I see them often, recognizable by their furtive movements, the way they keep to themselves and glance around with the emptiness of the truly damned. It is part of my duty to spot them and police their doings while on the Strip – in exchange, I am permitted to keep my position as silent partner at The Tops Casino. By whom, you ask? Robert House, de-facto ruler of New Vegas in charge of its Securitron robot police force which he controls from his fortress-casino at the Lucky 38. Oh yes, Robert is aware of us – there is little that goes on the Strip he doesn't know about though nobody has ever laid eyes on the man, not even myself; only his computerized avatar. It is a tense alliance, one which in the old days Kindred would have considered demeaning – bowing down to a mere mortal? _Ha!_ Robert, however, is no mere mortal; having been around since before the Great War, he has chosen technology as his personal answer to immortality – perhaps, ultimately, the reason he tolerates us is because we are more like him than any.

I am expected at the Lucky 38 later tonight; Robert sent word he'd like to pick up where we left off. He enjoys our conversations, debating and reminiscing on times long gone; he calls them stimulating. I, of course, oblige, not without a certain feeling of anticipation: he fascinates me, this man who cheated death with the help of technology and became imprisoned by it. I do wonder...has he ever been tempted by the _other_ form of immortality?  
Perhaps I will ask him.

Moira Sushill  
November 10th 2280  
The Tops Casino  
New Vegas

  


So, the apocalypse...Armageddon, the end of the fuckin' world. It's one of those things everyone's always afraid of but never really think it would happen to them; after all, no matter how fucked up humanity is, they wouldn't actually _blow up the world_ , right? Well, on October 23, 2077, that's exactly what they did.

I'll spare you the history lesson, but I can say this much: it wasn't pretty: death, destruction, violence, fear... the works, and humans weren't the only ones who felt like they'd suddenly woken up and the entire planet had gone to hell. We – or at least those of us who made it, 'cause many didn't – weren't a lot better off, not even the “mighty Elders” with their fancy-ass havens and political empires, which by that point were either rubble or in the process of being picked apart by raiders. One thing I can say about the War is that it's been the Great Equalizer, tearing down centuries' worth of bullshit traditions, turning the establishment upside down, forcing Elder, Neonate and mere mortal down to the same basic level which meant one thing: survival. Not everyone was particularly unhappy with that part: those of us who've had to endure countless stuck-up Princes and Primogen treating us like shit for years, shoving their laws down our throats and deciding how we should live our lives, figured they had it coming. Those bastards with all of their ghouls and servants who probably didn't even hunt their own food anymore all of a sudden had _competitors_ , and no choice but to slum with the rest of us.

A few – well, more than a few- banded together in the weeks and months after the attack, with a plan. Survival of the fittest: it was time to take back the world from the humans and the handful of Elders still around and the only way to do that was by force, in full awareness of what we were: vampires, predators, the top of the food chain. With humanity either dead, dying or being scattered, we were faced with our own extinction if we didn't act then, and hell, it beat hiding out in some hole like rats. In hindsight, it was a shoddy plan: we were badly organized and not particularly well-armed, still vulnerable during the day as ever, but most of all, we underestimated the humans who responded in full force, and by force I mean robots and energy weapons. I don't think most of them even realized what they were killing, but it didn't matter: the world had just ended and they were acting out of pure instinct, lashing out at anything they saw as a threat. And they had the numbers, even then.

So our little revolution was brutal and short-lived, but not everyone got blasted into piles of goo. Those smart enough to get out while they could ran like hell, heading off into the wastes where they were later on joined by others, mostly Gangrel, Nosferatu and a handful of Brujah. The odd Malkavian too. They camped out in empty Vaults and ruined buildings, feeding on whatever they could find out there while trying not to run into anything particularly large and toothy. That was in the old days, before I set off on my own – the whole outback lifestyle wasn't for me in the long term – but nowadays they're far more than a bunch of isolated rogues. Oh they are savages all right, having gotten so in tune with the Beast out there that they're wilder than any of us, but they've adapted and done it well. Evolved, they like to say if you can get any of them to talk about it, the next breed of vampire or some shit like that. There’s all sorts of stories going around, that some of them have absorbed so much radiation they can now release it in bursts like Glowing Ones, or that they've managed to Embrace Super Mutants, or that they control whole packs of ghouled Deathclaws. Personally I think it's mostly bullshit, but there's no denying that critters steer clear of their settlements and tear intruders to pieces. Batshit-crazy or not, you don't fuck with the Rogues. Still, I kinda prefer them to the alternative: remnants of the Camarilla trying to turn back time and revive the Masquerade; “Secrecy is the key to our survival, blah blah blah”; same old, same old, really. Just an excuse for them to get _their_ claws on the best feeding grounds and keep the rest of us under their thumb. Word goes one or two of 'em even made it as far as New Vegas and struck up an alliance with House in return for living there, which is damned funny if you think about it: asking a human's permission to eat other humans. How that must sting their egos!

Me? I travel a lot, sticking mostly to smaller communities where people are stupider and less likely to pack a lot of firepower, scavenging chems and supplies and selling them for caps. One thing I like about these times is that killing's back in fashion for us vamps. Oh don't give me that “humanity” crap; humanity's every bit as bad as we are: mercs, junkies, cannibals, slavers...oh yeah slavery's in again too, and if those Legion shitheads win the upcoming war, it's gonna get a helluva lot more popular.

I've been tracking this particular group the entire evening, watching them burn the camp to the ground, rape and pillage like every other asshole with muscle since the beginning of time, then round up the slaves in a pen for the night, until they can transport them to the nearest Legion fort. What they don't know is that they're being watched by a very patient someone who's been waiting for an opportunity like this: out of all the shitbags of the world, slavers are the lowest of the low and I take particular pleasure in taking them down. Why? None of your fucking business; but suffice to say I have my reasons.

The first one hears nothing, sees nothing and only lets out a strangled yelp before my hand clamps over his mouth, pushing his head back to expose the neck where I waste no time digging in my fangs, eager to receive the gush of crimson goodness. I let him go, still gurgling and spraying blood from his torn neck, and spit out a chunk of flesh as two of his buddies wave their torches around in confusion, not yet realizing what's going on. The second one goes down quickly but the third one sees me and yells some kind of Roman slur as he starts firing his weapon. There's a spattering of bullets and some hit me and _fuck that stings_ so I let go of the dead guy whose windpipe I'd just crushed. There's a burning torch at my feet which I really want to get the fuck away from but with a roar that's heard across the silent wastes I lift it and toss it at the last man standing, setting his clothes on fire.

“Eat a _mentula_ , motherfucker!!” I scream after him as he flails and screams and drops to the ground, a human-shaped pyre thrashing against the dark backdrop of the ruined camp.

Dawn Tyler  
October 4th 2280  
South of Fire Root Cavern  
Mojave Desert

**Author's Note:**

> The Latin word Dawn uses at the end, _mentula_ , means "penis". She basically told the Legionary to go eat a dick.


End file.
